The Things Kurt Sees
by khawarspirit
Summary: Inspired by a story I read years ago. Life through the eyes of Kurt Hummel.
1. No Light

How much disappointment can someone take in the span of a year?

I didn't get into the college I wanted. Well, _wanted_ is an understatement. While Rachel probably dreams of winning awards, all I dreamt of was a chance to leave. To escape this unaccepting town, and thrive under the bright lights of New York. All the preparation I did, the hard work for my audition, the time I spent thinking about all the possibilities of how I would begin life anew there, all of that just seems like it happened a long time ago. Hell, I even sorted through all my things just to decide on what to take with me, which wasn't easy. I got a text message from Chandler only a few days after Rachel left for her tour of New York that he had gotten into the musical theater program at NYU. I was happy for him. But that was like salt on a fresh wound. I still wished him the best of luck, though.

Unwillingly.

"Hello, can I help you?" an old man who is the owner comes and asks me politely.

"No, thanks," I answer, forcing a smile. "I'm just looking around. Is that all right?"

"Of course, of course," he replies and walks slowly towards the counter and sits himself down.

He keeps an eye on me. There's no one else here.

I'm standing in what I consider the only authentic antique shop in Lima, and looking over objects that catch my eye. The room is well-kept and clean, and rays from the evening sun come in through the open blinds of the window, and give the place an old feel. I walk over to a nightstand on which is a small box, and stare at it. I run my finger along the wooden top of a box, and I almost want to buy it. It's spotless, and there is what looks like a snake with wings carved on the top. It's varnished, and the lock looks like it would still work. I didn't open it, however. Maybe it had contained some sort of a secret when it was with its last owner, or maybe it just served as a jewelry box, but it does have some history to it. All the objects in this shop do, I suppose. Maybe one day my belongings would end up in some shop like this where some teen boy would come in and wonder the same things I was wondering. If I'd become someone famous like I had wanted to be, maybe the objects would hold even more value, and would be even more interesting.

I decide not to buy anything and leave the shop. It's aimless to be walking around everywhere, but I really wanted to leave my room.

I light a cigarette and start walking. The sun will be going down soon and I will go through another day just as aimlessly as yesterday, or tomorrow. Why I'm holding on to this depression is a question I cannot answer. All I wish for is to somehow go back in time and fix things, but time doesn't flow in both directions. It's just full speed ahead, and reality crushes those who don't progress with it. I know I've stopped trying and progressing further. And look at what happens to entire nations who become stuck in their present and don't move forward… They get decimated. So what is a pitiful human being, in comparison? But it is a _funk_ that I'm in, as we used to put it in glee club.

The night is warm and I'm standing outside Scandals, smoking what I think is the tenth cigarette of the day and feeling tired. I haven't done much all day but I suppose I feel tired because of the walk here. Simply choosing to walk from home to the bookstore, then to the antique shop, and finally to this bar. It took a while, maybe thirty minutes. Why I'm here, I don't know. I want to go inside, but what then? I'm not even sure I want to meet someone there, but it's some lame pathetic attempt to get over Blaine. I know sleeping with one person to get over another doesn't really work, but I'm way past so many philosophies of that nature. I throw the cigarette on the ground and put it out with my shoe.

The inside of the bar is lively as I remember it. All kinds of strangely dressed men and transvestites are dancing to thumping music, the kind of music in which the drums are louder than the Auto-Tuned voice of the singer. The music is annoyingly loud, though. Louder than the first time I was here, and I knew it would get on my nerves soon. I wasn't a fan of alcohol, so the only thing I order at the bar is some juice and have a look around. The dim lights of the place cause some difficultly in making out the faces of the people who are even a few feet away but I do see some great physiques on some of the men here. I take a sip of my juice and wonder again why I'm here. It seems unlikely that I would run into anyone I know here and yet I start to get nervous. I don't even want to see Karofsky again. I'm well-dressed as always and I know a lot of these men would try to pull the moves on me, but that idea repulses me. I can't sleep with a stranger.

"Hi there," I hear someone say in a low baritone voice, dangerously close to my ear.

I turn around hurriedly and see a skinny boy. He has a round face, with a jaw that's prominent only because he seems to have zero percent body fat. He looks to be around twenty, with black hair and a tan that's not too unpleasant on him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," he says slowly. "May I sit with you?"

I sigh and sigh again. "Of course."

"I'm Tyler," he says and extends his hand.

I shake it. "I'm Kurt."

"Kurt, can I buy you a drink?" The smile on his face is flirtatious.

Really? How typical of him. "No, thanks. I'm good."

"Cool," he says. His smile stays. "Why do you seem sad, Kurt?"

The question is so direct that I'm surprised. "And how did you deduce that?"

"Just something in your eyes. You seem unsettled."

"I'm sorry but I'm really not in the mood for sharing my problems with total strangers," I say a little more harshly than I intended.

His smile falters but he doesn't leave. "Okay…"

"... ... ..."

"... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..."

"Are you just going to stare at me all night?" I ask dryly.

"You're very good-looking, why wouldn't I?" he says quite seriously and with a strange confidence.

"Wow, so we're flirting suddenly?"

"If you want," he says and winks at me.

"I'm not one to beat around the bush, Tyler," I say loudly, because the music suddenly seems louder. "I'm not here to pick someone up."

"Then why are you here? That's the only purpose this place serves these days!"

"Is this an interview?"

"... ... ... ..."

"Stop staring at me!" I say. I've had enough of this, time to leave.

He grabs my wrist as I get up and I'm shocked. I give him an angry look that pretty much speaks for itself. He loosens his grip but moves a little closer.

"Kurt, you don't seem like the kind of guy who belongs in a place like this. I know this because neither do I. I only came because this guy I _thought_ I was dating told me to be here but then he stood me up. So I thought might as well get a drink. But then I saw you sitting here, and you looked more out of place here than I was, and that intrigued me so I came here to start a harmless conversation. But I _still_ think you look sad, and I know it's because of some guy too. So can't we talk, just for a while?"

"... ... ... ... ... Fine," I say, sit back down, and take another sip of the juice. This just might get interesting yet.

"Are you a student?" he asks, trying to start a conversation.

"Finished high school," I say. Another sip. "Didn't get into the only college I applied to."

"That sucks. Why just one?"

"Because that's the only place I wanted to go. New York. With my best friend."

"Is that what you're sad about, then?"

"Yes, and no... That is something else entirely. You were right – it is about a guy."

"Did you love him?"

"... ... ... ... ... What do you think?"

"Right... So do you come here often?"

"Don't make me repeat my last question."

He laughs. It's a throaty laugh. I think it is sexy. "So why did you both break up if you loved him?"

I ignore that. "Can I get a refill?" I ask the waiter. He fills the glass back up.

"All right, you don't want to talk about that," he says, stating the obvious. "You know, the beauty of being stood up is that one can have a guilt-free conscience after you end it with them."

"I envy you," I say dryly.

He laughs again, and for once I don't actually feel too crappy. My sarcasm is making someone laugh. How odd.

The song ends and in the moment of silence between the succeeding song I hear that it's raining outside. Why did the weather have to be so unpredictable these days? It's going to be a pain getting home now.

"It's raining," Tyler says, just as another loud song begins. "I like the monsoon season, you know. Don't you? I love the rain."

"Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative," I say, as if the words were my own.

"I have read pretty much everything Oscar Wilde wrote, you know," he says with a grin.

I give a small smile. Cute _and_ smart? Not too bad.

"I didn't take you for the literary type," I say. "…. Because of the way you talk."

"Too quick to be deceived by appearances aren't you? You don't know anything about me, I've been the one asking questions since we started talking!"

"What kind of stuff do you read?" I asked, more interested in the conversation now.

"Anything and everything from novels to history books. I suppose my favorite would have to be philosophy because I can relate with the teachings of the individual philosophers, before all this democracies and groups like the Cynics and the Stoics came along to bastardize those concepts that were put forward by the philosophers of nature and ideology, like Socrates and Plato. It's all very contradictory you know; I suppose pure science is the only thing that has the least number of contradictions. But if we don't try to understand the teachings of philosophy we might never really find what is right or wrong. Yes it gives us some very hard questions to deal with but there have to be answers somewhere right?"

I stared at him. "You're saying that the Cynics were wrong? Just because they provide opposite views to the individuals' philosophies doesn't mean that they were wrong. If anything, their being more than one gives them more credibility. Yes, there are things they have said that I disagree with but also the theories put forward by the likes of Socrates are very outdated, they became outdated when religions came. Why do you think more people flocked towards Christ than they did towards Socrates? Their mediums weren't different, all their teachings spread by word of mouth and yet still people found more credibility in religion than they did in Plato's words when he wrote about the eternally true, the eternally beautiful and the eternally good. Maybe their teachings were too rational for the people, and most of the people do like to believe in something unseen; a God that they can blame, or worship or beg, because it takes the pressure off, it takes the blame and puts it somewhere no one can see so they can justify their often irrational causes."

He stared wide-eyed, like he had certainly not been expecting someone to put up a counter argument.

"Anyway," I say, another slight smile coming to my lips. "Do you like show tunes?"

He laughs. The song changes to another one, this to one with a slower tempo.

I wait for the rain to stop as I talk, and drink some more juice.

I think I deserve this one night of indulgence.

At least I hope I do.


	2. Beautiful, Ugly

I look up from my journal to see that nothing much as changed in the Central Lima park around me in the last thirty minutes we have been here. A few kids play at a distance from me, and a small group of adults whom I assume are their parents are sitting on a sheet laid out on the grass. They are eating, chatting and laughing.

People are always laughing.

I'm sitting on a bench with my legs crossed, journal in lap and pen in hand, thinking about the right choice of words for my next sentence. Rachel is sitting on the on another bench to the side with Finn lying on the same bench, his head in her lap. The autumn weather is calm, and the breeze feels relaxing, intoxicating even. Now I wonder why I had hesitated in the first place in coming here with them. Sure, they can be annoyingly and desperately romantic in occasions that least called for that sort of behavior, but the weather and the breeze is almost enough to make up for putting up with them.

Rachel is looking down at Finn and they seem to be engrossed in a conversation the likes of which only lovers can indulge. Having never had a boyfriend myself, I can only imagine what they could be discussing; though I am pretty sure it's of no real use or consequence to the world. So I let them be, and watch them give each other looks of contentment and satisfaction which is still a mystery to me. But truth be told, I have no curiosity whatsoever to find out what they are so happily chatting about. I don't even know why I'm sitting with them, almost ignored, if all they were going to do was have public displays of affection. I could just as easily walk and sit near the small fountain in the middle of the park, or I could just go home, but I don't. And I won't. Because right now, I feel a different kind of content; one that doesn't stem from the company of a lover, but from being emotionally whole myself, and to feel whole is to feel content, and being content means being calm, and calmness is something I will never get enough of.

Their conversation slowly gets louder and their laughs more frequent. I turn to look at them.

"Well, Quinn isn't solo material," Rachel says thoughtfully.

"Why?"

"She's just not as good a singer."

"I dunno, she looks pretty good on stage," Finn says looking up playfully at her.

She smacks his arm. "You're not supposed to say that around me!"

"I was only kidding," he laughs, and reaches up a hand to run through her hair. "You're the most beautiful girl in the world to me."

She smiles and leans down to kiss him on nose.

... ... ... ... ... ... ...Lovers.

I see Finn reach up a hand and scratch his forehead very roughly with his index finger and a few seconds later Rachel gasps.

"What's wrong?" Finn asks looking up at her.

"There was a zit on your forehead," she replies reaching for her bag.

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, you scratched it and now it's bleeding."

My curiosity leads me to get up from the bench and walk to over a few feet to my left where they're sitting. I look down at Finn's 'wound' and see that the amount of blood coming from it is no more than what would come from the prick of a common pin. I hardly see what the big deal is but Rachel has already pulled out a piece of tissue and is gently pressing it over his forehead.

I return to sit on my bench and get back to writing in my journal.

"Kurt?"

Sigh. I pause writing and look up. "Yes, Rachel?"

"What are you writing?"

"... ... ... ...Stuff."

"Um, okay," she says, and Finn sits up.

"You look bored, man," Finn says stating the obvious. "How long you just gonna keep sitting there?"

"Until the bleeding earth cools."

"... ...Okay, well, we were thinking of heading home. You coming with?"

"No, thank you. I'll just walk home when I'm done."

"Sure," he says and they start walking away from me.

Rachel says goodbye over her shoulder, but I don't respond. I'm too busy staring at the words I've written, which suddenly seem like a mess to me. All it takes for a good piece of writing to be ruined is to read it back and realize that you could have had a better choice of words or better phrasing, or maybe you could have styled that 'e' with a little more grace, or that 'o' doesn't look quite circular. I wouldn't go so far as to say my latest entry was ruined, but it was less appealing to me after a reread. I would want it to be flawless. I take a deep breath and start writing again.

_As humans we all crave perfection, especially in things we create. It's a natural part of the human psyche, and I can imagine it dating back to the first time a woman put something on her lips to get rid of the chapping, or a man ran his hands through his hair to smooth them out. Over time it became more and more important to focus on the aesthetics, to the point that art, appearance and all things associated became the identities of everything from objects to people to the entire nations. Culture is just a by-product of art, a strange kind of art that we do not express in words or painted portraits, but through actions and rituals, and then we exercise them enough to evolve into a set of human behaviors, specific to a group or society or religion. In the end, art is our identity and our individuality that everyone expresses in little ways. So much as picking out the pair of sunglasses which look better on your face than the rest is a form of style, which is a form of the great art of appearance - to say nothing of the person who put thought and effort into __creating __that particular pair of sunglasses with a vision in all of this, we would seamlessly blend into the greys of the granite that makes up the towers of the corporate sectors of the world with nothing to give us a sense of self or worth. That would be a cold and metaphorically dead world indeed. I could live in a silent world, but not necessarily a cold one. And no matter how intolerant or annoying or **loud**_ people _seem sometimes, I would prefer it this way over the other if I had a choice in the matter... Because the world is beautiful despite its ugliness. If there is a God, he sure has a hell of an aesthetic sense._

Another paradox, I suppose.

I look around the park and the group of children and adults are packing up their belongings and leavings, finished with their picnic.

I put my journal and pen back in my bag, stretch my legs and stand up. My body feels rigid, and the I am dangerously close to sweating after sitting in the sun for so long. And I feel oddly... alive.

Time to go home.

I need some more tea.


	3. No Holding Back

I stare at the room around me with a feeling of uncertainty. I don't want to be here and I wouldn't be if I wasn't forced. I guess even dad has had enough of my attitude, but it has been a while since the breakup so maybe it was warranted. I don't think so. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check it, even though it hasn't vibrated in hours. I knew I wouldn't find anything but it had become a habit to keep checking hoping to get a text or a call from him. I don't remember how many days it has been since I fell apart. I used to know, but I lost count, because it didn't matter to me anymore. A thought of Blaine crosses my mind for the millionth time that day and I feel my heart sink in that feeling I had gotten so used to. I like it; the recollection of memories, the way my heart still beat faster when I remember him, and the way I just want to close my eyes and imagine him with me again.

All of this and it is just eleven in the morning.

But that is too distracting from the task at hand. I don't want to think about Blaine in this room. The large, dark brown wooden desk in front of me is out of proportion because the room isn't that big. Sandwiched between the top of the desk and the transparent glass slab are some cards, a calendar and some A4 size pages that I'm too lazy to read. I glance up to see one soft-light bulb in each corner of the ceiling and notice how the light makes the room feel more comfortable. The air conditioner is turned on and I feel cold, even though it is a warm summer day. A metallic table name plate in front of me reads Sarah Stone. I subconsciously raise a hand to my mouth and start biting the nail of my thumb. There is a framed degree on the wall on my right and a small table under it with flowers in a beautiful red vase, I could see they were artificial but they would have fooled a less-observing eye. Two comfortable looking leather-covered single seat sofas are on either side of the table. It is supposed to be a cozy room but I just want to get up and run. I am about to pull out my phone again but I stop at the sound of the door behind me opening.

Ms. Stone walks into the room and takes a seat behind her big desk. Her chair looks too comfortable. I sigh and wait for her to begin. She's looking at me far too intently for comfort.

"I was speaking with your father outside," she says after a long pause – a pause that seemed much more uncomfortable for me than it was for her.

"I know."

"He was explaining to me why you were, but I stopped him," she says with a smile. "Would you like to tell me why you're here?"

"Because my dad dragged me out of bed at ten in the morning on a Saturday and practically threw me into a car before I found out where we were going," I said monotonously.

Her eyes remain expressionlessness, but there is a slight smile on her face.

Feh. How professional.

"Well, Kurt, it seems you're very sad, let's talk about that."

"... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... No," I say and look down.

"Why not?" she asks politely. I like her voice. She might even have a singer's tonal quality.

I take my eyes off my lap and look into hers. They're a dark shade of brown, and it's hard to look away. The look in her eyes is inviting, calm, relaxed, however I can't make out what she's feeling. A veil of discretion, I suppose, and it makes it impossible to read whether she is a happy person or a sad one. There is no in between; a person is either content and happy or miserable and lonely. By the time I look away I realize that I've probably made more eye contact than I would have liked to. She doesn't look away, because I suppose therapists have some of the best social skills. It escapes me why someone would want to study human beings and their behavior at all. They're complex, irrational, tenacious, and often stupid. Many of them are fragile and weak, and those are the people that end up in rooms like this. It's too much to delve into, and I fear that if one understands human behavior, one is forever doomed to always interpret the meaning behind peoples' body language, words and characters. That must make even the most ordinary conversations very tedious.

"I don't want to be weak," I say and cock my head to the side. I'm slouching in my chair, too. Where has all my energy gone?

She ignores that, for some reason. I find that odd. Instead she says, "Kurt, where would you like to begin?"

"I don't know."

"Just start from wherever you're comfortable, then."

"... ... ..."

"I know that you're aware of this but whatever you say here will remain between us."

"I know… May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What do you think about the LGBT community?"

"I don't think that matters in this conversation, I'm here to listen and advise objectively."

"Everyone is limited by perspective," I say, staring at her desk. I will dodge the questions and avoid the discussion as long as I can.

"Kurt, I'm not here to advise you on morals or religion, and one hour is far too short to debate the causes and implications of human sexuality. You need to talk about what's bothering you."

I give her a cold look but keep my voice even. "I'm not bothered, I'm depressed."

"I suppose simply knowing that you are means you're one step ahead of most people that walk into this room."

"Woo-hoo," I deadpanned, while rolling my eyes.

She chuckles, and that makes me angry.

"Kurt, I don't think we can progress this session unless you start feeling comfortable here," she says in what is probably the sweetest tone she can manage.

"I am comfortable, I just don't want to be here," I say, and I can tell she knows that it's a half lie.

"I really want to make this hour more productive," she says slowly, while gazing at her wristwatch.

It's probably been ten or fifteen minutes already.

"Well, I'm sorry that I'm not being a model patient for you, Ms. Stone," I say very insincerely.

"That isn't the case, actually. I've had worse patients," she responds calmly, and I don't know what else I can say to shake that composure.

"I broke up with the love of my life," I start but as soon as those words leave my mouth, I regret them.

"I won't even talk about how wrong that sounds coming from someone so young," she says, immediately serious. "Why did it happen?"

"Because I ended it, I'd had enough," I say and I feel like I'm scratching at some sort of rawness of the skin over a wound that hasn't fully healed.

"Enough of what?"

"Enough of the arguments, enough of the drama. I was so completely in love that even little things would be too hurtful, and I guess I made bigger issues of them than I should have… There's only so much we could drift apart all the while putting up this charade of a relationship. I was losing him, I could feel it. He was drifting away. We talked less and less, we almost never met the last few weeks and… when we did it was a short meeting. We were becoming too distant and I thought it better to end it. But now…. I regret that decision."

She had listened to all of that quietly and so I got quiet, to let speak.

"Were you intimate with him?"

"You mean physically?" I ask in response to what is an odd question after my long confession.

"Yes."

"I slept with him, yeah," I say with some hesitation, and I can tell she picked up on that. I didn't like to talk about sex in any capacity.

"I believe relationships that involve physicality are harder to forget," she says, but thinks for a while and continues, "Will you allow me to steer this conversation in another direction?"

"As you wish."

"Were you comfortable with the physical aspects of the relationship?"

I gave her a look. "Well… not initially. But it grew on me."

"So it was against your will the first time?"

"I wanted to make him happy," I say softly and try to make sense of why she was asking this.

"Did you really love him, Kurt? Think about it; was he an alternative to someone else you were in love with? Or did you just want someone and didn't care who it was?"

"I loved him, for sure!" I say a little angrily. How dare she insinuate this?

"Okay, let's say you do love him," she begins after a pause. "Do you think he loved you just the same?"

"He can answer that better than I can," I say, unsure of my answer. "I think he did. Maybe still does."

"You know there is more to a relationship than sex, but that's what he wanted from you, isn't it?"

"It's only the natural next step, isn't it?" I reply in a tone to match hers. Some part of me wishes I didn't get so defensive. "Besides, I was curious too."

"But you never acted on it. Kurt, allow me to tell you something. A personality is not innate; it's not like your sexual preference. You're not born with it. It's the result of all these different factors, the way you were raised, the way you were taught, all of that. I think the problem here is that you weren't assertive. I'm not saying this to flatter you, Kurt, but you are a bright young man, and you seem bold as well. But you lack something…. you lack the self-confidence to assert your opinion. I'm going to ask you a few questions, but I want you to answer them quickly, so you won't have time to second guess. Will you do that?"

I was surprised with her analysis. It seemed to make some sense. "Of course."

"Are you more likely to demand an apology or make up a reason to apologize yourself to someone you like?"

"To apologize," I said with a grimace.

"Did you quietly take the back seat to other people in school?"

Rachel, Finn, even Blaine. Oh, no. "Yes."

"Did you ever feel insecure around him?"

"When I saw him be friendly or flirty with someone else, I suppose."

"Did you at any point in your relationship feel obsessed with him?"

"I did, especially when I saw him being as confident as I wish I was."

"One final question, while we're being honest… Did you admire that trait or were you envious?"

"Both, I suppose. He had all the things I wanted."

Such a long conversation and she had me almost figured out; and we hadn't even mentioned a lot of things about me. She didn't know my hobbies or interests, she was taking this head-on.

"All right, I think we've hit something here and I want you to think about this. This feeling that you're so quick to label off as love, do you now think that it was an obsession or that maybe you were in love with someone else and trying to substitute them? In fact, let this be the question you should think about until our next session. Because I sincerely think this is a self-esteem issue, perhaps you thought that you would never find someone better than him, perhaps you still do. You seem shocked at hearing that, but you shouldn't be. This place we live in, it's not very accommodating to homosexuals, and I am willing to bet that you were bullied, or at least picked on for your sexuality – majorly because you appear to be open about it. All these issues contribute to the lack of self-esteem you seem to have. We have a term for this, you see; you're in need of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy because you seem to be getting your priorities wrong. I will asset this because it's what I've found out today; this breakup is not the real issue you have, it's the way you're handling it that is wrong…"

My jaw would hit the floor if it could. This woman knew nothing about me besides my breakup and my name, and yet she was deducing everything.

"Kurt, do you think you're in love with someone else?"

But I love Blaine... ... ... ... Don't I?

No one else…

"I don't know," I answer hesitantly.

Her eyes meet mine and suddenly her expression seems stern, serious.

"I think you know, Kurt," she says quickly, and her tone is much sweeter than her expression.

"... ... ... ... ..."

"I can't go forward with this unless you answer truthfully."

"But…" I feel the tears coming. I try to contain them, but I fail.

"Kurt?"

A tear rolls down my cheek and I don't know what to say.

" ... ... ... ... ..."

She... ... ...

I... ... ...


	4. Spirit

I am watching Mercedes sing.

A small choir which consists exclusively of young children is assembled on stage with her, with half the children on each side. Their soft, high voices giving the song an elevated sense of spirit. Mercedes herself is standing in the middle, right in front of the altar. She stands there with her shoulders erect, in a sober black knee-length dress that hugs her form. She looks incredible, like she is in her element. Her tone is clear, beautiful and mesmerizing. The tonal clarity is a rare quality in singers these days, it's the most delicate part of the voice to train, and Mercedes has one of the best developed _messa di voce_ in any of the singers I have ever met. I admire it, and I respect her talent. She is on-pitch, as she always is, and every melisma, every high note, and every pause takes us, the listeners, deeper into the experience of the song which she delivers with a mastery that I cannot help but envy. She has a natural talent, something the people who surround me right now would define as a gift from God.

I do wonder if God gave Mercedes her voice.

I always wonder about these things.

Always looking for an answer.

_Something that gets me through the night._

Sitting in a church - or any place of worship - makes on feel like the malice in the world has gone away, and in its wake has left something entirely contrary to itself. Love. That is the only reason I offer to join Mercedes to the church on alternate Sundays. At school and in the Lima society, there is too much intolerance. To make matters worse, it seems every time I turn on the news on television I'm greeted with further hate and death. The wars, and the murders. This seems like something of a temporary remedy for my distress. But there is a certain hypocrisy I see in religion that the zealots always conveniently gloss over: The grand orchestrators of the madness in this world aren't the Gods and angels, thought to exist in some ill-defined notion of a place with seventy-two virgins and the like. The real brutes and barbarians exist in the world with us. They share our tables and break bread with us, they warm our beds, and we have blinded ourselves to their ways. The real monsters and creatures of nightmare do not come from horror movies or frightening pieces of literature, but are in and of people themselves; while we close our eyes to our loved ones' wrongdoings and say, _what does a small sin matter in the grand scheme of things? Does it really matter is you take ten dollars from the person who has a hundred thousand? _To be fair, does it really? When what should really scare us is not some stories that tell us about an endless pit of fire, of unproven existence, for the damned sinners among us, but at the same time I believe humans are too quick to rule out the butterfly and snowball effects we can have with the little deeds that add up to uncontrolled malice, death and destruction. This trait runs deeper than the ingrained habits of narcissism and insensitivity; something more akin to ignorance rather than disregard. How will that God forgive us these things? Or more importantly, how will we forgive ourselves? Seeking repentance and absolution from our wrongdoings, when every beat of our heart pumps venom and poison and judgement which have become natural parts of the lifeblood that pumps and flows and sloshes at the tips of our fingers.

I never believed in a higher power, but all the conflict in this world, the war and suffering, which couples with the beauty of love and joy and birth... Altogether it seems much too big, too monumental, and too _real_ to be just a damn coincidence.

The song has ended. The audience sits in silence and awe.

I see Mercedes smile and walk off the stage. She picks up her bag, pulls out her phone from it and walks towards me while checking her messages.

"You okay?" she asks as she stands next to me.

"I'm fine... Have a seat." I slide to the side to make room for her to sit.

"No, I have to go," she says typing a response on her phone. "Mom's calling me home."

"All right," I say with a smile and stand up. "I'll see you to your car."

We walk outside in silence, as the preacher takes his position on the stage to continue his sermon to the gathering.

"It's too soon for Monday," I say with a frown as we walk towards Mercedes' car in the parking.

"Tell me about it, I don't feel like going to school tomorrow either. We should, though. Regionals are coming up and there's rehearsal at noon tomorrow."

"Yeah," I say, lost in thought. "Is it true Rachel is getting the solo at Regionals again this year?"

"Yep, she wouldn't stop annoying Mr. Schue until he gave in... Didn't you want to do it this time?"

"Didn't you?"

"Nah, not really."

"Liar," I say with a slight smile.

"No, but seriously, Kurt. That solo would have looked great on your NYADA application."

"I don't feel like kissing Mr. Schue's ass these days," I say sarcastically.

She laughs.

We have reached the car.

"Thanks for coming today," she says and gives me a hug.

"Always a pleasure to hear you sing."

"Such a charmer," she says, grinning as if I have made her day.

"Well, take care," I say and take a step back.

She gets in the car and starts it up. "Later!"

I wave as she drives away. It's the afternoon already and I feel hungry.

I wonder what Carole made for lunch today as I walk towards my car.


	5. Love

**A/N: I wonder: are comments a dying practice on FF? Five chapters in and no one has left so much as a flame comment criticizing the work. It would be nice to know if I'm heading in the right direction.**

* * *

I shiver every time he touches me with that kind of passion.

I had forgotten these feelings that Blaine used to ignite within me. Or had I just wanted to forget, as a way to suppress the guilt and pain that accompanied the memories? Whatever the reasons, the passion erupts within me every time I feel his skin against mine. The reasons behind my isolation from such intimacy dissolve into insignificance as his nose rubs against my jaw and he closes his lips on the nape of my neck. I can feel the warm breath of his exhale on my neck and it makes me shudder.

My knees go weak. They always go weak. They would buckle, but he keeps me from moving from the position he has me pinned in against the wall.

Bit by bit we undress each other. The articles of clothing drop to the floor in no order. We rush to take off what we can, and sometimes when we are too caught up in the haze of lust, the pants only go down to our knees or ankles, and sometimes our shirts stay on throughout our lovemaking.

We just hunger for release.

If I could help myself, I would never end up in this situation with him repeatedly. And yet, all it takes for him to have me again is a small text message with an invitation and a time. I always show up.

Again and again his soft lips touch mine, and my fears, hesitations and doubts start dissolving away like grains of sand - like they hold no significance in the bigger picture. But they don't go away fast enough; not before I catch a glimpse of the reality. A look at the crudeness of the situation, of how broken I am to keep ending up like this. I glance at my own shame at being so helpless that I can't so much as push him away when he makes me yield to my own pleasure. I want him closer every time his naked body rubs against mine. I get harder every time when his thigh grazes along my member.

It's not a regular kind of contact, rather it's as if some kind of electric potential that resides in his fingertips sends waves of pure pleasure through my body every time we make contact in such an intimate setting. I grab his arms roughly and pull him closer, with my eyes shut, and I can feel my heart beating faster in the confines of my chest, its thumping audible in the silent room with the drum-like rhythmic pound only eclipsed by the sound of our lips smacking together in a frenzy of lust.

This is what it takes to make me feel alive.

The stage may lose its effect on me but this - this pure unending pleasure - never will.

_He never will._

I hunger for another kiss, and I steal it before he pushed me down on his bed and climbs over me.

I reach one leg up and put it over his shoulder, as he leans into me.

The taste of his lips reminds of all things new and old that I've come to cherish.

He doesn't waste time in getting to what he really wants to do. This time enters me quicker than he usually does, albeit with a certain gentleness which seems to me a part of his nature. He dominates me. Completes me. My first moan of pleasure tells him all that he wants to hear. The longing, the pleasure mixed with pain like some bitter healing remedy with a honey aftertaste.

Then he begins thrusting.

We dance this erotic dance regularly these days.

Why we do, is a complete mystery to me. What changed between us so suddenly, I do not know, and maybe I will never know. Which is for the better, because the unknowing keeps me interested, it keeps these encounters more charming than they need to be. I know he could just as easily have someone else in my place right now, another person - a girl - admiring his beautiful body and defined jaw, kissing his soft lips, and gazing into his hazel-green eyes. But he doesn't have anyone else, not now. When we started out, he was not exclusive to me. Now I know that I am the only one he is sleeping with. For some reason that thought scares me. If it had been a year or two ago, I would have grabbed the opportunity like a lifeline. I am wiser now, though.

I don't want his exclusivity.

I just want him to fuck me faster.

I moan out his name, as he pushes into me repeatedly with increasing passion. My heart is racing. I watch his body and his muscles are flexing with every thrust, his whole torso turning slightly pink from the thrill and the exercise. I reach up my arm, grab his shoulder and pull him down for another kiss. He doesn't slow down, but puts his hands on the side of my face and kisses me deeply.

_He is so damn good at this._

With our lips still joined, I gently grab a handful of the hair on the back of his head, and that is when he makes a loud noise. I know he is close to his release. I break the kiss.

"Make me cum," I say. It comes out very husky.

He pulls away and grabs my cock. I am slightly leaning on my side, with one leg up and over his shoulder. We don't break eye contact as he grabs it with one hand and puts his other hand on my thigh. He starts to pump my member, I hear a squishy sound and I know my cock is practically leaking pre-cum. He has that effect on me.

"F-faster," I urge, and he speeds up.

"Damn, Kurt, this is so hot," he says in a breathy voice.

Hearing him say my name sends me over the edge. I shudder uncontrollably as I ejaculate over my own thigh, while making a noise halfway between a loud moan and a shout.

"Ahh, fuck... Kurt... K-Kurt," he says, and hurriedly pulls himself out, tears off the condom and spills his own seed over my belly.

He collapses on the bed to my side and we both try to catch our breaths.

"That was..." he says a moment later, still breathing hard. "Fantastic."

I respond with a smile, get up, and walk into the bathroom. He doesn't follow me.

A quick wash later, I return into the room and see him still lying naked on the bed, typing on his phone. I rush to put on my clothes.

I pick up my bag and just as I am about to leave, I hear him call my name. I turn around to see him, still lying on the bed. He has put his phone aside, and is reaching out an arm as a gesture of invitation.

"I can't stay," I say, trying to keep the sadness out of my voice.

His smile fades, but he doesn't take his eyes off me.

"Kurt... I..."

"Yes?"

"I love you."

I knew this would be coming. I had felt something different today, and I knew it would be a matter of time before he made it clear what it was.

"I know," I say in response.

I leave the room. I leave his house. I am determined not to return to him the next time he calls me.

But I know I will.

These resolves don't last me very long.

_I love you, too... Sam._


End file.
